Dead Romantic (16 page)

‘Sometimes you have to get involved, Julian.'

‘Not in my experience,' said her employer, with a sardonic smile.

Madeleine nodded sharply and went out of the room. The encounter had left them both feeling good. Madeleine had dramatised herself into a crusader, fighting nobly for the rights and welfare of her pupils against an unfeeling management. And Julian had got his customary satisfaction from another responsibility evaded.

He thought idly of Madeleine after she had gone. She had been looking good that morning, the flush of annoyance heightening the colour of her cheeks, throwing into relief, as ever, the red-gold hair. Julian wondered, not for the first time, why he, with his strong appetite for women, had never fancied her. Partly, he knew, it was circumstance. She was too close to him, too ever-present, and he always took care that his exit-route should be clear before starting any relationship.

But it wasn't just that.

For a full minute after Madeleine had left the room, Paul resisted the temptation, but he knew he would succumb sooner or later, and it would be safer to succumb sooner.

He reached into her handbag and extracted the envelope. He slid the card out. The picture was a reproduction of Holman Hunt's
Claudio and Isabella
, but Paul did not recognise it. He did not know that it illustrated the moment from
Measure for Measure
when Claudio tries to persuade his sister to sacrifice her virginity and save his life. Nor, to be fair, had the card's sender thought of that particular significance when he chose it. So far as Bernard Hopkins was concerned, he knew that Madeleine liked the Pre- Raphaelites and he had thought the card romantic.

The message inside, which Paul read, Bernard had also thought romantic.

MADELEINE – YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO SPEND THE WEEKEND OF 2ND TO 4TH NOVEMBER AT WINTER JASMINE COTTAGE, SHORTON, NR PULBOROUGH, WEST SUSSEX. RSVP.

Paul only opened the card long enough to read the words before he put it back into its envelope and returned it to Madeleine's handbag.

But he had had time to memorise the address.

Madeleine did not want to give the knife back to Paul. She was mildly worried that he might do himself some injury with it, but, more than that, she didn't want the drama of her confiscation to end in bathos. So she put it in the bottom of her brief-case which hung on a hook with her coat outside the office.

‘Oh, thank goodness it's you.'

Bernard recognised the voice at the other end as soon as he picked up the phone. ‘Madeleine. Why shouldn't it be me?'

‘I was afraid your wife might answer. I suppose I'd just have rung off if she had.'

‘You needn't worry. I always answer the phone.'

‘You're more mobile, I suppose, than she is.'

Bernard neither confirmed nor denied this. ‘Just assume that you're safe to ring me.'

‘And she can't hear your end of the conversation?'

‘The telephone's in my study.'

Madeleine sighed with relief. ‘It's amazing how quickly one slips into the usages of duplicity. Secret phone-calls, secret messages.'

‘Yes.' Bernard did not appear to wish to pursue this topic. He sounded expectant, waiting for something from her.

‘I rang,' said Madeleine slowly, ‘in response to your invitation.'

‘Yes?'

‘Being a nicely brought-up lady, I know that one should reply to invitations promptly. I know it should really be done by letter, but I wasn't sure who picked up the post in your house.'

‘I do that too.'

‘I wasn't to know that. So, anyway, the invitation. . .' She let the silence spread for a moment before continuing. ‘Now, let me get the form of words right.' She spoke as if quoting an official document. ‘Madeleine Severn has much pleasure in accepting Bernard Hopkins' kind invitation to Winter Jasmine Cottage for the weekend of the 2nd to the 4th of November.'

‘Oh. Good.' Bernard could not disguise the relief in his voice. ‘I'm very glad to hear that.'

‘No, I'll look forward to it. Winter Jasmine Cottage – it sounds beautiful.'

‘It is. I've been to have a look.'

‘I have visions of a magic place, beams, thatched roof, surrounded by the yellow blooms of winter jasmine.'

‘I can do you the beams and the thatched roof all right, Madeleine. I'm afraid the winter jasmine isn't out yet. Too early for it.'

‘Oh, well. Can't have everything. I'm sure it'll still be lovely.'

‘Yes. I hope so,' he said gently, but with a note of seriousness.

‘Thank you for making all the arrangements, Bernard. Is there anything I can do to help?'

‘Well, I suppose we ought to think about food.'

‘Leave that to me. I'll work out menus for the whole weekend.'

‘Thank you. I'll organise some wine.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Oh, the owner said, um. . .' Bernard was suddenly embarrassed, ‘there aren't any sheets in the cottage.'

‘I'll bring some.'

‘Well, I can if –'

‘I'll do it.'

Bernard let out a little, nervous laugh. ‘It was really quite easy. It's amazing how easily things can be done if you set your mind to it.'

‘Yes.' Then, with a hint of reproof, Madeleine said, ‘We must be discreet, Bernard.”

‘I know.'

‘I mean you shouldn't really have given that card to Stella Franklin. You know what a gossip she is.'

‘Yes, I know. It was daft. It's just that I was so convinced I'd see you at the Garrettway, I had the card all ready to slip to you discreetly, and then I was suddenly sent off to deal with these Italians. And I just wanted you to have it as soon as possible. I couldn't wait. I didn't give it to Stella, anyway. I just put it in your pigeon-hole.'

‘And she took it upon herself to make it a personal delivery.'

‘She must have done. Do you think she suspects what's going on, Madeleine?'

‘I think I managed to put her off the scent this time. But we must be careful. I couldn't bear the thought of this getting back to your wife.'

‘No. No.' Bernard sounded subdued for the rest of the conversation, and after the call had ended he sat for some time in troubled contemplation. Madeleine's mention of his wife had brought home to him the reality of what he was doing, and he felt guilt for his duplicity.

Why, Madeleine wondered again as she looked at her niece over the health-food restaurant table, did Laura do her hair like that? Surely no one could imagine that the shaved nape and the flopping blonded forelock was attractive. It might be fashionable, but people ought to be able to recognise when a fashion was ugly.

Madeleine smoothed down her shaggy loam-coloured pullover, her fingers lightly caressing the stomach into which a nut rissole and yoghurt with honey had just disappeared. ‘Laura,' she said, ‘I've been thinking about what you asked me when we met last week.'

‘Yes?' The girl's voice was tense, very dependent on the reaction, so Madeleine did not hurry too much in replying.

‘I still don't like the idea of deceiving Aggie. . .'

Laura looked downcast and petulant.

‘On the other hand, as you know, I've always believed in the importance of love, and I think there are times when one must put love above other considerations.'

Laura looked up, hopeful now, but impatient.

‘You are sure that you're in love with this Terry?'

‘Absolutely certain. We're just right for each other. It works.'

‘Good.' Another dramatic pause was allowed to go the distance, before the sudden question, ‘Would you like to come and stay at my house from the 2nd to the 4th of November?'

Laura looked wary. ‘You mean, with Terry?'

Madeleine nodded bountifully.

Laura leapt from her seat, threw her arms round her aunt, and kissed her. ‘You're great. I knew you wouldn't let me down.'

Madeleine was warmed by the embrace. She remembered how easily and frequently Laura had used to hug her, and she felt that more of the recent distance between them had been closed.

Laura sat down, still smiling ecstatically. Then a shadow of doubt clouded her face. ‘But that's a weekend, isn't it?'

‘Yes. Friday night and Saturday night.'

‘Terry goes back to Worcester at weekends, to see his mother.'

‘Couldn't she forego seeing him for one weekend?'

‘Maybe,' said Laura dubiously. ‘Perhaps he could stay down the Friday night and then leave the Saturday morning. I'd have to check.'

‘It's up to you to sort out the details.' There was some asperity in Madeleine's voice. She did not like having the teeth of her gift horse examined so minutely. ‘I thought you wanted me to act as an alibi and that's what I'm offering to do for you. If you don't want to take up the offer, then that's up to you.'

Warned by her aunt's tone, and realising that the opportunity might establish a useful precedent, Laura was instantly conciliatory. ‘I'm sorry, Madeleine. I didn't mean it like that at all. No, I'm really grateful. It's terrific for me to have someone around like you, someone who's not all hidebound and petty, someone I can really talk to as an equal, who understands what I'm on about.'

She was saying all the right things and Madeleine, predictably, glowed.

‘But', asked Laura, still solicitous, ‘are you sure it's OK? It is enormously kind of you, but are you sure you're not going to mind having us around?'

‘It'll be no problem', said Madeleine, ‘because I am going to be away for that weekend.'

‘So you mean we can have the house to ourselves?' Laura tried not to let her grin become too huge. It wouldn't do to show how much more she relished the prospect of being alone with her lover, without her aunt emoting around the place. ‘Oh, what a pity. Then you won't meet Terry. I'm sure the two of you would have lots in common,' she lied.

‘Yes, you can have the house for the weekend.' Then, to show that she hadn't quite forgiven her niece's treatment of her gift-horse, Madeleine added, ‘Or for as much of the weekend as Terry's mother can spare him.'

‘Don't worry. We'll sort that out.' Laura was confident now; the prospect of having the free run of Madeleine's house with her lover had cheered her enormously.

‘Good,' Madeleine smiled beatifically at her niece. ‘There is one thing, of course.'

‘What?'

‘You'd better not tell Aggie that I won't be there.'

Laura's hand leapt to her mouth in mock-horror. ‘Good Lord, no. Yes, she's hardly going to believe that I'm staying with you if she knows you're away.'

‘Exactly.'

‘Is she likely to find out?'

‘Only if you tell her, Laura.'

The girl winked. ‘Your secret is safe with me.' She grinned. ‘So, in fact, while you're providing an alibi for me, I will also be providing an alibi for you.'

Madeleine laughed her silvery laugh. ‘Sounds a bit over-dramatic, but I suppose you could see it like that.'

Laura looked into her aunt's eyes. ‘Why? What are
you
up to that weekend?'

‘Ah,' said Madeleine, retaining her mystery. ‘Wouldn't you like to know?'

She had always liked intrigue, and being involved in this conspiracy with Bernard gave her a positive charge of excitement. It refurbished her old fantasy of Madeleine Severn, the
femme fatale,
and imparted drama to every preparation that she made for the encounter at Winter Jasmine Cottage. It made her feel special.

After the lunch with Laura, she returned to Kemp Town to change into her disguise.

She put on black tights, an old black, shapeless T-shirt dress which she had ceased to wear some couple of years before, and boring black shoes which had been discarded soon after purchase as unsuitable to the style of Madeleine Severn. Over these she belted a black coat which had been her mother's and which was usually aired only at funerals.

The red-gold hair that was her glory must, of course, be hidden. She shaped it into a tight bun on the back of her head and over this placed a large black beret, which she occasionally affected when her hair was loose, but had never before used for concealment. However, it served the purpose admirably.

Then, gilding the lily perhaps, she put on a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses she had bought when on an art-appreciation package-tour to Venice two years previously. As she did so, she felt a stray hair snag on a roughness on her hand. She looked with dismay at her knuckles, to see the creases in the skin looking dry and chalky. One or two had split, to show a moist redness inside. Both hands were similarly affected.

The sight angered her. She recognised immediately what it was, a skin infection which affected her in times of emotional upheaval. It had appeared once or twice during her teens, erupted quite virulently in the months surrounding John Kaczmarek's death, but since then had not troubled her. For the infection to appear now, when she had a new lover, when she wanted to look her best, was aggravating in the extreme.

She would get some cream from the chemist. Maybe there was something new on the market that would clear it up before it got any worse. For the time being, she added a pair of gloves to her black ensemble.

She cast a final look in the mirror and decided that no one would recognise her. This was probably true, though whether the costume made her inconspicuous was another question. The casual observer might have been forgiven for thinking she was playing the part of a spy in an amateur dramatic society production.

She went to the local chemist, where she knew the proprietor well. He took a look at her hands and produced a recently-developed steroid-based cream which was supposed to be very good. If that didn't sort it out in a week, he said, she'd better go and see her doctor; skin conditions were funny things. Madeleine rubbed some of the cream on to the affected areas, replaced her gloves, caught a bus to Brighton Station and took the next train up to Victoria.